


Aficion

by Jinsai_ish



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27218194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinsai_ish/pseuds/Jinsai_ish
Summary: Sex, bullfighting, Hemingway’s foul mouth, though not in that order. Blatant theft (and paraphrasing) of actual quotes by Hemingway.Set in Spain in the mid-1920s.This does have companion works but may also be read as a one-shot.
Relationships: America/France (Hetalia), America/Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Aficion

Europe is recovering from the war. America flounders, though he makes it look more like one of his new dances. It’s a lindy hop of progress; a heady swirl of roaring capitalism and hollow consumerism, moonshine and mafia. Everything is modern; everything fresh. He is liberated these days.  
  
He has never been so utterly, marvelously, despairingly lost.  
  
  
  
  
Hemingway took him to his first bullfight at a plaza in Pamplona, in the late afternoon. They had come down from Paris, and France with them. Earlier, they’d hidden from the midday sun in their hotel, although the author had been left to his own devices after they’d uncorked the second bottle of red, as France had seized both the bottle and America and kept them occupied in his room for the duration of the siesta. They were supposed to be attending the bullfight with France, but soon after they reached the packed arena, Hemingway tucked America’s arm under his and pulled him into the crowd.  
  
America stumbled after him, craning his neck back and stretching up on tip-toe to search for France. He thought for a moment he had caught sight of a head of silky blond hair, but then Hemingway tugged him forward, and France was lost in the sea of darker heads.  
  
“Ernest!” he panted, picking up his pace. He liked the man despite himself, despite his abrasive attitude and the way he shoved past people like a bull himself. There was a feverishness to him, an intensity that America found himself drawn to. Even France had admitted that he thought the man was talented, and that perhaps America’s current generation wasn’t such a waste (though he also thought Paris deserved some of the credit there). America had beamed at the compliment.  
  
“Ernest, wait up! We’ve lost France.” He was uncertain and confused amid so many Europeans, and would have preferred to have France by his side. France was arrogant and rude, and had little patience for America's provincialism, but he’d been tolerating it all the same. America didn’t think he liked France very much either, but he’d spent most of the last year (and more of the decade than he would readily admit) crashing at his place. The sex was good. It passed the time at least.  
  
The writer snorted. “France is for pansies,” he proclaimed, continuing his penetration of the crowd. A couple of shoves and an elbow here and there, and he and America were through, pressed up against a railing just above the dirt-packed floor of the plaza.  
  
“France,” Hemingway continued, “-is a good place to rest up, but a horrible place for action. All seduction and lust, but not a damnable bit of passion. He’s got Paris, and the wine’s still good, and that’s well enough, but the passion is dry and dust.” He dug a cigar and a match out of his pocket and lit it, not offering one to America. He blew a ring of smoke out over the railing. America watched it dissipate and felt his cheeks burn. “Any fire he’s got in him is what he got from you, and what’s he doing with it?”  
  
“But it’s all like that now, isn’t it?” America asked, thinking of the girls back home with bobbed hair and cigarettes, and the men drunk or wishing they were, all slick hair and cufflinks. He glanced at the writer and found Hemingway watching him. “All smoke and jazz and whoopee. That’s the – the zeitgeist, right? That’s what you write about anyways, so shouldn’t you know better than anyone? I mean, sometimes it feels like there’s no meaning to any of it anymore, so what’s it matter?”  
  
“Nothing’s got any damned meaning other than what we give it,” Hemingway said at last. “Never has.”  
  
That wasn’t sympathy in his tone, but it was something close enough to leave both of them feeling uncomfortable.  
  
“Vulgarity!” Hemingway exclaimed suddenly, pounding the railing with his fist and waving his cigar about in the air, almost burning the Spaniard on the other side of him. “That’s what it is, so don’t give me that bullshit about losing France, because we’re better off with him back there in that crowd. That one’ll harp on you about style and fashion, and society, and what of it? It’s fucking Elliot going on about drowned Phoenician sailors with pearls for eyes! You ever heard anything so nonsensical? Of course you have, hanging about that damn fop.” He snorted again. “Pearls for eyes. Bullshit! Not worth the weeds on Joe’s grave, and I’ve said that before and I will again if you ask me. You know what vulgarity is?”  
  
America sighed. Hemingway might have had a point but, well, he kind of liked Elliot, even if he didn’t always understand him. Then again, he didn’t always understand Hemingway either. “Yeah. Well, more or less I think. Not so sure what you’re on about though.”  
  
Hemingway glared down at his cigar, took one last puff, then ground it out against the railing. He tossed what was left down into the ring. Below them, a man on a horse rode out into the plaza.  
  
“Ignore the picadors,” he said gruffly as America’s eyes drifted down towards the scene. “They’re just getting the bull prepped. We’ve got time before the main show yet.” He took a deep breath, as if cleansing his lungs of fumes, though America didn’t see what good it would do. The air about them was filled with smoke, and the dust from the ring. “So there’s a war, right? _The_ war, and maybe it’s the last one, and maybe it’s not. Never was any of our damned business, being over here, but we came anyways. Find all of Europe rotting in their damn trenches, and try to pull them out. Almost lost my balls to them you know, and not so much as a breath of gratitude. That one ever thank you, for any of it?”  
  
America shook his head, and Hemingway nodded, apparently content that he’d proved his point.  
  
“Now, that’s vulgar,” the writer concluded. Silence drifted between them for a while. America listened to the roar of the crowd, the unfamiliar accents of Spain’s people thick and colorful to his ears. It smelled a bit like he remembered from his days in the territories, before they grew up into proper states. It was all dust and dirt and sweat then, the smell of leather and cattle, and the occasional whiff of dried blood. He tried not to pay much attention to the last. The Spanish sun was hot even though it was well past its zenith, and his throat grew dry.  
  
The crowd's excitement swelled suddenly, and Hemingway elbowed him in the side.  
  
“Now the matadors will come out,” he said. “Now it’s about to be a proper bullfight. _La fiesta brava_ , as they call it.”  
  
America started to respond, but when the matador stepped out, he fell silent.  
  
Spain hadn’t fought in the war, though he’d sold supplies to both sides. Because of that, the last time America had seen him had been when Cuba had decided he was done with Europe. America had sided with his island neighbor. He’d had Teddy back then, and they’d run roughshod over Spain, booting him out of the Western hemisphere. That war had been quick, and Spain had been left a mess. America’s last memory of him was with dark bruises under his eyes and a smudge on his cheek, paying the price for having stretched himself too thin.

  
To say he looked better now didn’t begin to cover it. Spain's dark hair was tousled and glossy. His eyes gleamed. His jaw was firm…and his legs, too, America noticed. He tried to force his gaze up but it slipped down anyways, following the line of golden stitching on those snug-fitting matador pants. Shins encased in high boots and firm thighs hugged by those pants—it was flashy and sinful as anything, and America _wants_.  
  
Then he was in action, and America held his breath as the red cape flared out. The bull’s horns passed within inches of his chest. By all rights, Spain should have been terrified, but his lips quirked up into a smile, and so America was frightened in his place. Despite the heat, a shiver ran up his back.  
  
There was hunger there and a deadly beauty in the glint of the sun on steel when Spain drew his saber. It could have almost been a dance, were both parties not intent on murder. Spain dueled with the bull, twirling and sidestepping as the dripping blood softened the dirt beneath them into mud.  
  
It was magnificent, and it was horrible, and America couldn’t look away. Spain didn’t waste a single motion, every move a clean, flowing line between one stance and the next. Every step brought him closer to the stab of the bull’s horns, until his arm shot forward in a thrust that pierced straight through to the heart. The bull stumbled to its knees as Spain withdrew his sword with a flourish. He stepped away, and bowed to the crowd.  
  
When Spain lifted his head, their eyes met. America felt that look stab into him as sharply as the saber had the bull. Mercifully, the meeting was brief. Spain soon turned to continue his bows. He then exited the ring and save for the clean-up and the crowd’s cheers, it was over.  
  
America almost stumbled when he released the rail. He was light-headed and dizzy, and he wondered how long it had been since his last breath. He rubbed at his pounding temples, and wondered if Spain knew he was coming, or if it was merely a coincidence that the Mediterranean nation had spotted him amid the spectators.  
  
Hemingway shuffled him onward. He said something, but America failed to catch it. “What was that?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the cheering mass of people.  
  
“I said, he’s one of you, isn’t he?” The writer looked at him expectantly, but it was clear he already knew the answer. “Thought as much, the way you were looking at him like he was a ghost. Almost expected him to end up one, driving the bull on like he was. Guess he doesn’t have quite the same worries about getting gored that some of us do. Lucky bastard.”  
  
“It still hurts,” America heard himself protest before he realized he was replying. “He still bleeds. We all do.”  
  
Hemingway waved his hand dismissively. “Of course. But that? That’s passion. Bullfighters, they live life all the way up to the top. Probably the only bastards left who do anymore. That one, he’s the real thing.”  
  
They left the crowd behind them, but America still wasn’t sure where they were going. The writer led him down a set of stairs, then up a dim corridor. After a couple of minutes, he lost his sense of direction entirely. But there was a light up ahead, so he figured they couldn’t be far from wherever it was they were heading. He could hear chattering voices too, but his Spanish was worse than his French and he couldn’t make any of it out.  
  
When they reach the archway, they were stopped by two men in uniform. They looked serious, wearing frowns, with pistols at their waists. America wondered about them while they conversed quickly with each other, but he and Hemingway were allowed through after only a moment or two more.  
  
The room they entered was brimming with life, _senoritas_ in brightly colored dresses giggling behind their hands, now and then casting glances at the bullfighters who were milling about. The room was a swarm of color, red predominating, but there was gold and blue and white and glistening silver as well. The scents in the air were equally rich – the thick smell of chocolate mingling with smoke, perspiration, perfume, and the omnipresent dust. Below it all, there was the rusty tang of drying blood. Hemingway had already made his way into the center of the room, winking at the girls and grasping hands with the bullfighters, greeting them enthusiastically. They all reached out, to shake his in return, to touch his arm, or pat his shoulder. They all seemed to feel the need to touch him in some way, as if to make certain he was there and solid in front of them.  
  
America shuffled awkwardly from side to side. He thought of his brother, and wondered if Canada still felt like a ghost in the room, or if he’d grown so used to it that he barely noticed anymore. There was a twinge of something like guilt at that, so he focused back on Hemingway. The man had another cigar lit in his hand, even in the mob about him, and America thought –  
  
“If he’s not careful, someone is going to get burned.”  
  
America started at the familiar voice, spinning around to meet with Spain’s warm green eyes. He was still wearing his matador costume, the cape once more slung over his shoulder. America smiled for him. “I was thinking the same thing.” He gestured to the others, in their knot of conversation and touches. “Ernest brought me here. Ernest Hemingway. He’s one of my writers and a really good one too. He likes your bullfights.”  
  
Spain’s eyes glittered and his teeth flashed white. “ _Yo sé_. I’ve heard of your Ernesto. He has come to the bulls here before. They all know him. He has _afición_.”  
  
The word flopped clumsily off of America’s tongue. “Aficion? What’s that? Some new style?”  
  
“An old style.” Spain laughed. “The oldest and only style. It is passion, the fire that burns in your gut. If you have it, you know it. They have it, so they recognize it in him. And so, they don’t mind that he’s one of yours. For someone with _afición_ , we can forgive them anything.”  
  
“Why would they mind someone being one of mine?” America demanded to know, leaning forward with his hands on his hips. His people had just saved Europe’s butt not too long ago. And now they were creating all this great _stuff_ , like blues and jazz and movies and fashion. And he had new bridges and buildings and cars, and – and votes for women too! It was all _new_ and exciting, and it was coming from him, not from stuffy old Europe. What did he need to be forgiven for? For keeping Germany and Austria from dividing up Europe like a piece of fruit, or for having all the best new tunes?  
  
Maybe Spain was still cranky about Cuba. But Cuba had started fighting for his independence from Spain all on his own. Besides, if Spain had really wanted America to stay out of it, he shouldn’t have blown up his ship!  
  
The Mediterranean nation was obviously a professional at brushing off bad moods, because the next thing America knew, his hand was in Spain’s, and he was pulled along once more. They ducked behind a heavy curtain into a smaller room. It was quieter there, a few packing crates piled near the wall and what looked like an afternoon snack set out atop a dressing table - a bit of bread and cheese, with a small decanter of olive oil. A change of clothing was laid out over a chair, and a pair of worn brown leather boots was flopped over near the doorway. They were Spain’s clothes, he recognized. The pants were cut in a military style, and he recalled the uniformed men outside the door and remembered that Spain was in a militaristic phase right then.  
  
A fine dusting of sand blurred the mirror above the dressing table. America wandered the few steps it took to cross the room to smear it with his fingers. A rosary hung beside it, and holstered pistol lay on the table, just to the side of the bread. It made for a strange contrast.  
  
He could see Spain reflected in the mirror. He was unhooking his cape. “I hear those are red because it excites the bulls. Is that true?” America asked, turning to face the older nation.  
  
Spain grinned. “No.”  
  
America frowned. It seemed strange that Spain hadn’t asked why he was there. France was still back in the plaza somewhere, and then he decided that he didn’t want to think about France right then, so he thought about the bulls instead.  
  
“It seems cruel, somehow. Well, all of it is, I suppose. After all, it’s not like the bull volunteered to fight. But to kill it at the end seems especially cruel.”  
  
“They are spared sometimes, if they fight particularly well.”  
  
“Does that happen often?”  
  
“No. Not often.” That smile seemed to sharpen for a moment, and America’s swallow became lodged in his throat. His gaze sunk down as if weighted, from broad chest to narrow waist, to muscular thighs. There was a noticeable bulge between the latter two, and the serpent of heat in America’s stomach raised its head and adjusted its coils.  
  
When he looked back up, Spain was much closer, and he was breathing in the older nation’s exhales. He opened his mouth and closed his eyes because it didn’t make much sense not to at that point. His hands managed to find Spain’s waist, his hips jerking when Spain yanked his belt open. Spain kissed him hard enough to bruise, snapping his teeth down on America’s lip, and then sucking away the drop of blood that welled up as a result.  
  
He was harder than ever then, opening his mouth again and again to scalding, bruising kisses. He remembered St. Augustine, the sun heating the sand of the coast until it burned bare feet, the harsh smell of gun powder, and the horses with high heads and proud backs.  
  
He liked the horses.  
  
The heat swelled between them. When his hands slipped under Spain’s shirt, his skin was warm, slick and gritty at the same time with the sweat and dust of the bull ring still clinging to it. His pants were shoved down, and slipped loose to his ankles. Spain held onto his waist as he guided America to step free of them. Then it was the rhythm of America’s hips he was directing, leading them as he’d led the bull earlier to counter and compliment his own movements.  
  
Spain had to release America momentarily to grab at the table behind them, steadying it. He took the opportunity to steal up, sucking and nipping at America’s ear. The younger nation hissed lowly at that, his breath shallow and rapid. Spain’s heavily-accented whispers sent a quiver up his spine, and America let him run callused fingertips along his cheekbone to lift away his glasses. Their tongues tangled in the kiss that followed, and he arched into it, thrilling when Spain’s wandering hands returned, exploring his ass until he discovered the thin divide between its cheeks.  
  
America keened once – high and sharp. Spain allowed just enough space between them to turn him around. America’s hips hit the edge of the dressing table and he had to spread his legs and arms, so that he was almost nose-to-nose with his reflection, hands braced on either side of it. If he turned his head, he thought, he would be able to plant a kiss on the rosary. He shivered and chewed on his sore lower lip as Spain allowed some of the olive oil to trickle between his cheeks. Thanks to the oil and his earlier exertions with France, his entrance was easily breached.  
  
If Spain was amused to find him loose and so obviously eager, he didn’t say anything about it. He pressed in, and America threw his head back at the sheer, sordid delight of it. Spain thrust, one hand on America’s hip, another buried in his hair so that the blond nation’s scalp tingled as the pace picked up.  
  
“Oh, _bello_ , but you should have been mine,” America heard (or felt rather, Spain’s lips tracing the words out against his skin) murmured. He squeezed a hand between his hips and the table, giving himself a few strong strokes. He didn’t bother with anything resembling a technique – just a firm grasp up and down a handful of times, and that was enough for him. Spain was a greedy lover, but a talented one despite that. When he came, his fingers skittered across America’s stomach to his thighs, then to the pistol perched on the table, and finally up America’s arm to brush over the rosary still hanging off of the mirror.  
  
His other arm wrapped around America’s waist, supporting him for several long moments as they both soaked in the afterglow. Then he pulled out and turned America back to him. Their lips found each other once more before Spain leaned back, running his palm down the blond’s front to smooth his shirt out for him.  
  
“The capes are red,” Spain explained once his breathing evened out, “because it hides the stains from the blood.”  
  
He kissed America once more: a long, lingering kiss that was sweet with some exotic flavor the younger nation couldn’t quite place. Beneath the scents lingering from the plaza, Spain smelled like Arabia, all sand and spices and fragrant wood smoke. It is a scent he remembered from those days under the fiery Florida sun.  
  
Then Spain pulled away, changing into his trousers and buckling his pistol belt around his waist. “ _Lo siento, Ameríca,_ ” he excused himself. “I have places I need to be. I’m expected, I’m afraid, but you can find your own way out, _no_? Will you be here much longer?”  
  
America shook his head, and Spain sighed. “ _Que lástima_ ,” he murmured, and sounded sincere about it. “Then you will enjoy the rest of your stay as least? Give my love to France _querido_.”  
  
The younger nation blushed and, for one stomach-roiling second, wondered if he’d been spared.  
  
America lingered after Spain’s departure, taking the time to right himself. On a whim, he picked the cape up off of the ground. It seemed wrong to leave it lying there somehow. He noticed how stiff the fabric was in places. That was how Hemingway found him, running his fingers over the heavy cape. America was embarrassed, and it occurred to him how swollen his lips must be from kisses, but Hemingway just grunted and shook his head.  
  
“You ask me, Spain’s the last good country left. Hereabouts, anyway. You enjoy the bullfight?”  
  
America nodded. “It’s funny,” he said, speaking slowly as he laid the cape over the chair, “how one doesn’t mind the blood.”  
  
Hemingway crinkled his forehead at that, and nodded as if he was making a note of it. “That’s how it is,” he agreed. “Come on. Throat’s as dry as the damned Sahara. I need a drink.”

**Author’s Notes:**  
  
The ‘Joe’ Hemingway refers to is Joseph Conrad. When he died, Hemingway was quoted as saying that if it could be proved that by killing T.S. Elliot and sprinkling Conrad’s grave with his bone dust, that he could be brought back to life, he’d do it immediately. (And if anyone is as geeky as I am and wants the full quote, I have it. ^.^)  
  
Hemingway was in fact injured fighting in World War I, and this injury was the inspiration for Jake Barne’s own in _The Sun Also Rises_. The novel itself was written between 1924 and 1926 in both Spain and France. The line America utters “Funny how one doesn’t mind the blood” is spoken by the Lady Brett Ashley in the same novel. (The Lady Ashley’s character having escaped an abusive marriage, but remaining starved for any affection and attention she can get.)  
  
Hemingway is known for using simple language and omission in his works, and for his rather rough manner in socialization. Really, the sort of friend that leaves you not needing enemies. In Spain, he became known fondly as “Ernesto” (possibly due to an inability to properly pronounce his last name).  
  
The war America is thinking of is the Spanish-America War. America supported Cuban Independence; the war only lasted four months. Theodore Roosevelt fought in the war, and his victories boosted his later campaign for president. The war became known as _"El Desastre"_ (The Disaster) in Spain. The ship America is thinking of is, of course, the Maine.  
  
During the 1920s in Spain, economic crisis led to the establishment of a military dictatorship under General Primo de Ribera that lasted until 1930.  
  
**Phrases:**  
  
“come to the bulls” – One does not go to the bullfight; one goes to the bulls.  
  
_Bello_ , _quierdo_ \- endearments  
_Lo siento_ \- I’m sorry.  
_Que lástima_ \- What a pity.  
  
  
**Other inspirations:**  
_Barcelona_ by Nobou Ayukawa  
_The Waste Land_ by T.S. Elliot  
  
[Hemingway’s Spain](http://www.nytimes.com/1985/11/24/travel/hemingway-s-spain.html?sec=travel&pagewanted=2) \- NY Times article


End file.
